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My faithful partner tried to put up the screen door earlier, we both forgot where he put the screws and hinges last fall. It’s a

warm spring morning, a little muggy, clear sky, just the slightest veil of mist. Shadows land in shapes and patterns covering the

street. But here on this edge of eternity, what lies beyond the treetops sketching themselves into the atmosphere is of no

concern of mine at the moment. I want to be, here, allowing even words to be erased from thoughts, letting these images fade, so that

with eyes widened, heart stretched, my entire being can be present to the gifts of the morning, or I might overlook a treasure, or

miss a tender mercy, or not receive a revelation, I might have otherwise. And then I might evaporate into the mist and be

of no more use to anyone than the screen door on the front porch, there, leaning up against the house without any screws or

hinges. Even the dog wonders about that. We both jump when a sudden gust comes along, knocks it down, and breaks the frame.

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